and in fact I wouldn’t mind not marrying at all, but of course a woman has to be married if she wants to be a success in life, and I burn to be a success. So what am I to do? I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve got to take action soon or I’ll wind up a spinster, and one can’t be a successful spinster, it’s a contradiction in terms. I did think of being a successful nun, but they keep such peculiar hours and I’m sure I’d hate being deprived of my silk underwear –’
‘I agree it does sound as if you’re not called to celibacy in the cloister –’ I somehow managed not to dwell on the image of Miss Tallent in her silk underwear – ‘but plenty of women are called to celibacy in the world and manage to live happy, successful, productive lives. The big question here is not, as you seem to think: how will society judge me if I don’t marry, but: what kind of life does God require me to lead?’
‘As far as I can make out, God just wants me to loaf around Starmouth fending off passes from drunken sailors.’
‘Fine. Keep loafing and fending and I’m sure the way ahead will eventually become dear.’
‘But dearest Archdeacon –’
Despite the drunken sailors I can’t quite understand why you’re so convinced most men are beastly to women.’
‘Well, it’s all that pawing and pouncing, isn’t it? Heavens, why I haven’t been pounded into dust years ago I really can’t imagine, and it’s entirely because most men can think of nothing but sex – sex, sex, sex, sex, sex – and it ruins everything, simply ruins it, and sometimes it all seems so sad I want to cry. But I’ll tell you this, Archdeacon dear: if I ever do marry it’ll be to someone high-minded who won’t just look at me and think: “What a nice pair of legs!” I can’t possibly settle for a man who isn’t high-minded, not possibly, anyone low-minded is quite unthinkable.’
‘If a man loves you he’ll see far beyond your legs. I mean – good heavens, what am I saying –’
‘But how do I know if a man loves me, Stephen? You don’t mind if I call you Stephen, do you, it’s such a good pure noble high-minded name –’
‘Miss Tallent, I hate to say this, but I think you’d be bored to death by someone high-minded. Think of that prig Arabin in Barchester Towers! Everyone agrees he’s quite the most tedious hero in Victorian literature.’
‘But if it’s a question of choosing between someone high-minded and someone who’s sex-mad –’
‘Why choose? Why not have someone high-minded and sex-mad?’
‘Heavens, what an amazing suggestion! But does such a man exist?’
‘The human race is infinitely diverse.’ I glanced back over my shoulder at the house. ‘Well, now that we’ve seen the garden by moonlight perhaps we should –’
‘But I want to go down to the river! I want to sit on that wooden seat underneath the willows and have an enthralling discussion with you on the heroes of Victorian literature!’
I looked at the wild garden shimmering in the pale light. I looked at the willow trees, swaying against the night sky. I looked at the glittering water of the distant river. I looked into the land of countless fairy-tales where the hero is changed from a frog to a prince by the casual wave of a magic wand, and I said: ‘Well, all right. But only for five minutes.’
As I had already confessed to her, I liked to live dangerously.
III
The river curled around Starbridge in a loop to divide the city from the suburbs, but at the point where the water glided past the Cathedral Close there were no buildings on the opposite bank, only water meadows, woods and farmland. The inter-war building developments had taken place on the other side of the city where there was no river and no need to build expensive bridges. The water meadows and fields, owned by the Dean and Chapter, were leased to the nearest farmer and bore silent witness to the fact that Starbridge, though a county town, was not an industrial centre driven to expand in all directions. The countryside remained unspoilt beyond the river, and the line of willows at the bottom of the Bishop’s garden completed the illusion that we stood many miles from a city.
‘This was a great garden in Bishop Jardine’s day,’ I said as we sat down on the ancient bench by the riverbank. ‘But when the gardeners went into the army Dr Ottershaw had no alternative but to sanction a wilderness.’
‘Much more exciting! I think the garden in Tennyson’s Maud could have been a wilderness, all tangled and steamy and exotic –’
‘I wouldn’t have thought a modern young woman like you would be interested in Victorian literature.’
‘It was the only thing our stupid governess knew about.’
‘You never went to school?’
‘No, and if I had I’m sure I’d have run away and begun my outrageous society life much earlier – with the result that I’d now be worn out. In fact if I’d been the heroine of a Victorian novel –’
‘Oh, you’d have died of consumption by now, no doubt about that,’ I said, making her laugh, and we began to talk of all the literary heroines who had paid the price demanded by society for the flouting of convention.
The conversation glided on, just like the river, glinting, glittering, gleaming, a hypnotic pattern coalescing into a unity beneath the white bright slice of the moon. Time glided on too, the time which should have been spent in the drawing-room, and every few minutes I told myself we should return to the house. Yet I never moved. The fairy-tale in which I was travelling had become more clearly defined; I now realized I was enacting the role of a male Cinderella and that when the clock began to strike twelve I would be compelled to flee from my princess, but meanwhile I preferred not to think of those inevitable midnight chimes. I thought instead how amazing it was that I, entombed in my sedate cathedral city, should be enjoying a scintillating dialogue with a society girl, and beyond my amazement lurked the absurd satisfaction that I, Norman Neville Aysgarth, the son of a Yorkshire draper, should be conversing in a palace garden with a millionaire’s daughter who had danced with the former Prince of Wales. I always tried hard not to slide into the repellent snobbery of the social climber, and of course I knew a good clergyman should be quite above such embarrassingly worldly thoughts, but the night was very beautiful and Miss Tallent was very amusing and I was, after all, only human.
The metaphorical midnight arrived so suddenly that I jumped. Far away by the house Charlotte Ottershaw called: ‘Dido! What have you done with Neville?’ and I saw my fairy-tale draw to a close.
‘I’ve ravished him!’ yelled Miss Tallent, and added crossly to me: ‘What a bore! Now we’ll have to return to the drawing-room.’
‘And I must be getting home.’ In my imagination I heard Cinderella’s clock relentlessly chiming the hour.
‘Must you? Already? But why?’
The moment had come. I had reached the point in the fairy-tale when Cinderella had been reclothed in her rags after her unforgettable night at the ball. ‘Miss Tallent,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier but I’m hardly at liberty nowadays to keep late hours with charming young ladies. I have a wife waiting
